A Parent's Heart Bared
by JamesLuver
Summary: Congratulations. The words are not a lilting, joyful crescendo. Helen does not experience a soaring heart, overwhelming, profound delight, a spiritual enlightenment. No, the words are a death knell, suffocating the very air from her lungs as she tries to draw breath, the room spinning around her.


**A/N:** Like many people, I headcanon that Jack-Jack was an accident baby. I also headcanon that Helen wasn't initially thrilled by the news. I really, really hope this is okay because I've been really nervous about posting it. I apologise in advance if I've made any glaring detail errors.

 **Trigger warning** for a brief mention of abortion, just in case.

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Incredibles_.

* * *

 _A Parent's Heart Bared_

Helen stares vacantly at the floor as the curtain is pulled across with a grating sound that makes the hairs on her arms rise. Everything feels far away, watery, as if she's experiencing it from outside herself, a nauseating, awful feeling, her grip on reality slackening. There is nothing she can do to stop it.

This is just a scene from a nightmare. _Has_ to be. Any minute now she'll wake up, shudder in horror, snuggle closer to Bob, and thank her lucky stars that it was just a dream.

The landscape doesn't change. She can still smell the sharp, clinical odour of the doctor's office, hear him shuffling papers at his desk whilst he waits for her to reassemble herself.

This is her reality.

And she's pregnant again.

* * *

The week starts like any other in most ways, apart from Dash being sick. He's usually a robust little boy, always on the move, but he's stricken with the same stomach bug that's plaguing his entire class, and Helen spends the first two days taking care of him. He's a little feverish to begin with, but by the third she suspects that he's putting on an act because he likes being off school and treated like a prince, snuggled down in bed and the centre of her world. She indulges him anyway, bringing him whatever he requests and smoothing the hair from his face as he pouts and whimpers, but on Wednesday night she tells him firmly that he has to go back to school. Dash spends the entire evening scowling about the injustice.

Unfortunately, the following morning her _own_ symptoms begin. She doesn't feel unwell, per se, but the sickness strikes her hard and fast, and leaves her shivering on the bathroom floor. It improves as the day goes on, but begins again the very next day. Bob is wonderful with her, actually, and she enjoys her _own_ pampering at his hands, the soft kisses that he presses to her forehead, the way that he leaps into action whenever she rises to do something.

Helen enjoys being treated like a princess, but the sickness grows old quickly. Bob chuckles and tells her that she's a terrible patient. He's probably right, even as she refuses to admit it and scowls at him instead, but it _is_ a personal affront that she's ill. She _never_ gets ill. And for whatever reason, it seems to be _lingering_ , rising up at unexpected moments to taunt her when she's feeling absolutely fine. Bob questions whether a bug should last this long, but she dismisses him. She's not bedridden like Dash was, after all, so it must surely be on its way out of her system.

On the Monday, she rises with Bob and assembles him something to eat whilst he showers and dresses. She gets the kids up for school and shepherds them out of the house, making sure that Dash doesn't forget his backpack. And then the cleaning begins.

It's never fun work. Vi is usually fairly tidy and even though Bob loves his clutter he likes to be neat, but Dash is a nightmare. She's constantly finding his things all around the house. She spends half her time returning them to their rightful places in his room, knowing full well she'll have to do it all over again tomorrow.

After that, she decides to tackle the kitchen. It's hard work and soon she's sweating. Sighing, she sits back on her knees as she gives the floor a good scrub, using her wrist to push a lock of hair out of her eyes.

It's then that she feels it again.

The sudden, undeniable wave of nausea. It takes her by complete surprise with its ferocity, and she stumbles to the bathroom, fighting against the urge to empty the contents of her stomach all over the newly cleaned floor. She just about makes it in time. Coughing and heaving, she hunches herself over the toilet.

It passes as suddenly as it came, and Helen slowly pushes herself to her feet. Her limbs are watery, and she scrutinises herself in the mirror as she washes her hands. She's gone so pale she's almost transparent, and her dark eyes look huge in her head. Great. Still, she refuses to be bedridden. There's far too much for her to do and the last time she was unable to get out of bed, many, _many_ years before, Bob almost burned the house down.

She musters a wan smile for her reflection and turns away. God, she wishes this darn thing would just hurry up and flush itself out.

She doesn't over-exert herself for the rest of the morning, and by lunchtime she's feeling much better. She has to nip out to the grocery store later but she's got time to fix herself a quick snack.

It happens again as soon as she's finished eating. The rising wave, the irrepressible desire to heave.

Helen dashes to the toilet once more, cursing. What the hell is wrong?

As she's dragging herself out of the bathroom, feeling worse for wear all over again, the phone rings. Wearily, she makes her way towards the kitchen, stretching out her arm to snatch it up and slumping against the counter.

"Hello," she says.

"Hi, honey."

It's Bob. He doesn't always ring her on his lunch, but she can't deny that she's pleased to hear his voice. Even if he's not there with her, it's a comfort.

"Hey," she breathes. "How's your day, honey?"

"Fine. The usual. Mr. Huph is trying his usual trick of blocking every single insurance claim coming in."

"And you're doing your best to fight that from the shadows."

"Something like that."

"I know it's not the hero work you want to do, but it's still a wonderful battle to be fighting. You're making a difference."

"To some, yeah. Mr. Huph isn't happy."

It seems to Helen that Bob's boss is _never_ happy. She's met him once, at the Insuricare Christmas party the first year that Bob started working there, and she had been struck by how _loathsome_ he was. He'd clamoured to be nice to her, bordering on the slimy, and he had made her bristle by stating in an overly-jovial tone that left her in no doubt that he meant it that he couldn't understand how a man like Parr had snagged himself a woman like her. There had been nothing she had longed to do more than tell him exactly what she thought of that, but making things even more difficult for Bob was not the way to go about it, so she had bitten her tongue and grimaced her way through.

She'd made extra sure that Bob knew how loved he was that night.

"Why isn't he happy?" she asks now.

Bob sighs. "I authorised some claims that I shouldn't have."

"Oh, Bob."

"It's just not fair. He tries to swindle people out of everything he can and won't give them a penny in return when they really need it. I just…sometimes there are loopholes. Ways I can get them what they need."

"Just be careful," she tells him. There's no point in berating him. He was never made for sitting behind a desk. He likes to be proactive. He's doing it for her and the kids, and she can't criticise him for seeking out ways to feel good within the job. But the last thing they can afford is for him to lose that. They need the money.

"Yeah, I know," he says. "Anyway, how are you, honey?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't…sound it. What's happened?"

"Nothing. I just don't feel great today, that's all. The sickness hasn't passed yet."

"You seemed okay this morning." Bob sounds worried now. Do you need me to do anything? See if I can leave early?"

"No, stay where you are. It's just a little sickness. It's got to be coming to an end now."

"Maybe you're not resting enough to help it on its way. When was the last time you took it easy?"

"I don't remember," she admits grudgingly. It's true. She always has to be doing _something_. She's been used to living her life on the edge, of every single moment being perilous and exciting, diving into battle and not knowing what life would be like on the other side of it. It had been difficult adjusting to permanent civilian life where nothing _happened_ and she was forced to sit through conversation after dreary conversation about the decorating that was going to be done or the landscaping of the garden. The monotony had almost killed her at first. It had been a _relief_ that she had fallen pregnant with Violet so soon after their nuptials, because at least then everything had been for a purpose. These days there's no such thing as a dull moment when both of the kids have superpowers.

Kids.

Pregnancy.

"Helen? You still there?"

Oh, God.

"Helen? Honey? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she croaks, dry-mouthed. She can feel her heart palpitating hard in her chest, and it does nothing to abate the slightly nauseous feeling that still gnaws at the lining of her stomach.

"You sure? You sound a little odd." Now Bob sounds concerned, and she has to stamp that out before he asks too many questions.

"I'm fine, honey, really. Look, I gotta go. There are some things that I need to get finished before picking the kids up from school. I'll see you later."

She waits just long enough for Bob to issue a confused farewell, and then she slams the phone back down. She's shaking. Staring at her hands, she sinks down onto her chair. She can't be, can she?

She hasn't been pregnant in nine years. They'd made the decision after Dash's powers had made themselves known that they would stop at two. Well, okay, _she'd_ made that decision, but Bob had been understanding enough to agree with her. It was different for him; he was not in the house with two young children who could not grasp that they had to master their powers. The number of times she had been harried and on the verge of tears because Vi had disappeared or Dash had raced off in the grocery store were countless. She had lived in constant fear that they would have to move again because they had exposed themselves—and it had even happened that one time, when Vi was almost three and she'd been heavily pregnant with Dash. She's never known terror like it.

It's easier now that they're older, but Violet is withdrawn and resentful, and Dash is worse with his constant playing up for attention. It's difficult enough trying to keep everything together without having the distractions of a baby thrown into the mix.

Helen shakes her head, gritting her teeth. She can't think about any of that now. She still has work to do. Her worries might be unfounded. It really could be as simple as a milder strain of the tummy bug that Dash had.

But her monthly? When did she last have her monthly?

Dammit.

It's not necessarily an indication—they've never come at regular intervals—but coupled with this sickness…She wishes she'd been paying more attention. She strains to think back. It's probably been about three months, which is a frightening sign. _God_.

With anxiety swirling around inside her, Helen pushes away from the table. There's only one thing for it. She has to find out once and for all. If she doesn't, she will only drive herself mad dwelling on it, waiting to see one way or the other. She has never been one to bury her head in the sand. She has to be proactive.

Helen dials the doctor's surgery—it's one of those little things that's cemented itself now that she's a mom—and waits a few beats until the phone is answered, her insides twisting as if there are live snakes in there, poisoning her from the inside. By some huge stroke of luck, there's been a cancellation. It'll be cutting it tight to pick the kids up from school, but it's a chance that she's got to take. What's the point in putting it off for another day? It isn't going to quell her concerns.

"I'll take it," she says, wrapping the wire tight around her finger.

Once that's over and done with it's a rush to get the rest of the housework done, fluffing haphazard cushions and putting the ironing away. She's done just in time to grab her things and hurry out of the door.

In the car, Helen tries to drown out her thoughts by playing Sinatra loudly, but not even his dulcet tones can help. She chews on her lip. This song had been playing in the background on the night that she's pretty sure she fell pregnant with Violet. It's another ominous sign.

Abruptly, she turns it off. Perhaps the silence is better after all.

The doctor's office is almost empty when she arrives, and she perches ramrod straight on one of the chairs. The posters on the walls make her feel even queasier, advertising all manner of diseases and scientific advances. She returns her attention to her clasped hands. An age seems to pass.

"Mrs. Parr?"

The doctor's voice makes her jump; she scrambles to her feet, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Yes," she says.

"Please, follow me."

They walk down the long corridor together. She feels like she has heavy chains strangling her ankles, leading her straight to the gallows. Doctor Goldberg pushes open the door and holds it for her to enter first. She ducks beneath him and takes the chair.

Doctor Goldberg rounds his desk and settles himself behind it, steepling his fingers together. "So, Mrs. Parr, how can I help you today?"

Helen takes a deep breath, curling her fingers tightly in the material of her trousers. "I-I think…" The words stick and die in her throat. To utter them will make her fears concrete.

"Take all the time you need," Doctor Goldberg says kindly.

"I think I might be pregnant," she blurts, screwing up her eyes, pulling off the band aid. She squeezes her fists so tight that her nails dig into her palms.

"I see," the doctor says without missing a beat. "And what makes you suspect this?"

"I've been sick over the past few days."

"Could be a stomach bug."

"That's what I thought at first, but I don't _feel_ ill and I've not had any other symptoms."

"And this isn't your first child?"

"No. I have two already."

"Well, that's good. There's always a slight concern with older mothers, but if you've done this before then there's less to worry about. How old are your other children?"

"Twelve and nine."

"Hmm, quite a gap."

Helen bristles, but chooses not to say anything. She doesn't want to admit that the reason for that is because she never intended to fall pregnant again. They've always taken precautions against any such event. Nor does she like the implication that she's _old_. She's only thirty-seven, fell pregnant with Vi when she was just a girl herself, with no real experience at anything. Saving the world was a breeze when compared with changing a baby's nappy or trying to placate the baby's screaming when she was running on no sleep herself.

"When was your last cycle?" the doctor asks, jotting something down on his clipboard.

Helen scrunches up her nose. "I don't remember exactly. I've never been regular."

"So you never suspected?"

"No," says Helen defensively.

"Right, well, let's have a quick look," Goldberg says, adding a final note with a flourish. "If you'd like to get comfortable on the table, Mrs. Parr."

She's never going to feel comfortable; she hates being poked and prodded like she is some species in a zoo. Indeed, it had taken her a while to get used to Bob touching her for the simple pleasure of it, unused to the idea of someone wanting that kind of intimacy with her. Nevertheless, she does as she's been bid, lying prostrate on her back and trying to get her usually pliable limbs to relax.

Goldberg rounds the screen.

"May I?" he asks, indicating her blouse. Helen nods reluctantly and he pushes it up, exposing the flat of her belly to the room. She cranes her neck slightly, peering down at herself. _Is_ she rounder than she was before? She never stops to pay attention to herself, but now she wishes she had.

The doctor gathers his things together and she lets her head thud back down, tracing the tiny cracks on the ceiling with her eyes, too scared to look, trying to dissociate from the gentle probing.

At last, Goldberg sits back.

"Well," he says, "you were right to have your suspicions, Mrs. Parr. I believe you _are_ pregnant. Congratulations."

Congratulations. The words are not a lilting, joyful crescendo. Helen does not experience a soaring heart, overwhelming, profound delight, a spiritual enlightenment. No, the words are a death knell, suffocating the very air from her lungs as she tries to draw breath, the room spinning around her.

"How far along?" she manages.

"Everything is symptomatic of the first trimester," says Goldberg. "I'd say it's three months, though of course that's just a general guide."

Three months. Helen's sluggish memory moves. Roughly three months ago they'd taken the long weekend away together in Jacksonville. Lucius had insisted on him and Honey taking the kids so that they could enjoy some quality time together. Helen had been apprehensive about it—they had _never_ holidayed without the kids—but Bob had eventually convinced her that they should do it, that the kids would be perfectly fine with Lucius and Honey.

And it _had_ done them good to get away from the pressures of everyday life, to leave the stress behind and simply enjoy having no responsibilities. They'd had too much enjoyment, she thinks, twisting her hands together, regret gnawing like acid at the pit of her stomach. There had been that night, that instance…

"Mrs. Parr?"

Goldberg is looking at her curiously; she smooths her features back into a stoic mask. "Thank you, Doctor."

He must sense the finality in her tone for he moves away from her, leaving her behind the curtain to set herself back to rights. When she's done he's back behind his desk, finishing up with some notes.

"Come back soon," he requests. "There's nothing to suggest that everything won't go smoothly, but I would like to keep a closer eye on you for safety's sake. We've got the clinics…"

Helen tunes out his words. This isn't her first time. She knows exactly what she's supposed to do.

When at last he's finished talking, he walks her to the door. Helen thanks him again without feeling and drags herself to the car. Once there, she rests her forehead against the steering wheel and indulges in a moment of weakness. The tears well and spill all too readily, and she chokes on her sobs, her left hand sneaking to her stomach where the baby she never wanted now sleeps soundly, waiting for its moment to drag her back to a place she never wanted to revisit.

* * *

Helen doesn't move for several long minutes, and only scrambles to get the hell out of there when she realises that the beady-eyed old woman in the car next to her is staring, no doubt trying to work out what could possibly have brought her to this state. She's halfway home in a mindless fug when, with a jolt, she remembers that she has to pick the kids up from school.

She screeches to a halt outside Dash's school fifteen minutes late. Her son is sitting on the kerb, looking thoroughly fed-up, a scowl scrunching his little face. He springs to his feet and yanks open the door.

"Where _were_ you?" he complains. "I've had three teachers asking me if I'm okay. It was so embarrassing."

"I was running an errand," she tells him curtly.

"So an errand is more important than me now? Gee, thanks, Mom!"

Helen masters her temper with the greatest of efforts. She can't take this out on the kids. They are the only blameless ones here. It's herself she's furious with most of all.

Dash lapses into sulky silence, turned pointedly away from her to emphasise his annoyance. Helen grips the wheel tighter. The journey across town is tense.

Violet is waiting on the verge when they arrive, clutching her satchel. She slides into the back seat.

"Sorry I'm late, sweetie," Helen offers, waiting for her daughter to settle herself down before she signals away from the kerb.

"It's okay," says Violet. Helen catches her eye through the rear-view mirror, and quickly looks away. She always feels as if Violet is studying her, reading the thoughts in her head. True to form, she asks, "Mom, are you okay?"

"Fine, honey," she says, forcing a smile that feels too tight. She doesn't think that Violet believes her, but she falls silent. Determinedly, Helen keeps her eyes on the road. She can feel her daughter's gaze burning her.

It's a relief to reach the driveway. She pulls the car into the garage and unlocks the door. Dash is over the threshold and up the stairs in a flash. Violet ducks past her and disappears upstairs too. That suits Helen fine. She waits until she hears Violet's door close before throwing her things down on the sofa and sinking down onto it, burying her face in her hands. The emotions threaten to overwhelm her again and she forces herself to breathe, remembering the techniques that got her through the traumatising memories of the war.

Life must go on. She gathers herself together and drags herself to the kitchen. She has to make a start on dinner. Oh, God, she forgot to go to the grocery store. Helen feels the helpless wave rising within her, and blinks away the stupid rush of tears. They'll just have to make do with what she has in the house.

Even then it's like she's moving in a dream. Nothing feels real. She's slow, clumsy, lethargic. She drops a pan and chips the counter. She keeps forgetting what she's traipsed to the fridge or cupboards for, staring slack-jawed at nothing as she struggles to force her brain beyond the overwhelming, terrifying knowledge that she's going to have a third child.

Another baby, on top of the problems she's already having with Violet and Dash. She imagines trying to keep the baby placated whilst she sorts out Dash's bad behaviour at school, and Violet's teenaged outbursts. It will be back to being terrified of going out in public, back to worrying every second of every day that they will be exposed to society, that they will be subjected to more hate, that they will have to uproot their lives once again…They were told the first two times that the baby might not have powers, but there's no point in pinning her hopes on that. For all of their talk about the Super gene being recessive, Violet and Dash have not turned out normal, and there's no reason to believe that this baby will be any different. She can't deal with the stress of that all over again, the unpredictability of what's to come. The baby could have _any_ conceivable power under the sun. The possibilities are endless, limitless. Standing in the face of that, the terror wells anew.

"Hey, honey."

Bob's voice behind her is so sudden that it takes her by surprise; she narrowly misses slicing her finger. She gasps, the knife clattering across the counter.

"Honey!"

Bob's heavy tread quakes behind her, and he places a hand over her shoulder with a shade too much pressure, making her knees buckle slightly.

"What's wrong?" he asks, brow crinkling. "Be careful."

"Sorry, I was miles away," she mutters, refusing to meet his eye. "I didn't hear you come in."

He's looking at her oddly. "I called you twice."

She tries to muster a smile for his benefit, tilting her head up to him. "Hey, you know what I'm like. I get lost in a world of my own. There's a lot of stuff going round in my head."

"What kind of stuff?" He's frowning, and she can feel the turmoil bubbling just beneath the surface. Now is not the right time to get into all that.

"Nothing to worry about," she says, stretching up to press a kiss to his mouth. If she'd been hoping to deter him with her womanly charms—usually failsafe—she's disappointed. Bob still looks pensive when she pulls away from him.

"So, are you feeling any better?" he asks her. "Have you been sick again? Maybe you need a doctor?"

She closes her eyes. If only he knew. "I'm fine, honestly."

"You look a bit peaky."

" _Bob,"_ she says through gritted teeth, "stop fretting. Now, let me get on with dinner before it's too late. I'll shout you when it's ready, okay?"

"Sure," says Bob, but he's looking at her suspiciously. She tries to school her features. It's not as if she can keep this from him, but now is not the right time. Later, when the kids are in bed. That's when it'll be easier. No chance of being interrupted, of being overheard. They'll need all the time they can get to process such a bombshell.

"Get gone, then," she says, trying to inject a carefree lilt into her voice. She isn't sure if she's quite successful, but when she stretches up to kiss him again, she feels his mouth curving beneath hers into a pleased smile. He squeezes her affectionately and heads obediently out of the room.

Alone once more, Helen allows herself to fall back into her despair. It's too difficult to keep the mask pulled on at all times, and she doesn't have to be strong when she's by herself. Doesn't have to lie to herself, tell herself that this is a blessing in disguise. It's not.

But there's nothing that can be done about it now. She's made her mistakes and now has to face up to the consequences. Whether she wants it or not, there will be a third Parr child in six months' time, and she'll have to use every ounce of strength she possesses to get through it. Right now, with so many frightening, endless possibilities in front of her, she's not sure she will.

She's made a slapdash sauce to go with the meal, and she turns the gas on under the hob, forcing her wrist to stir it in a circular motion. It's surprisingly soothing; she times her breathing with the mesmerising sound of the spoon sliding around the pan. Her eyes stray, unfocused, to the back garden, to the darkness that's just starting to set in at the edges, ominous as it creeps forward to swallow the world whole.

There are…ways, of course. Ways to eliminate the problem. Whispered ways.

They're never spoken about in a polite suburban community such as this one, tarnish those who have the courage to go through with them. Helen's heard the mutters about Mrs. Yeardley's daughter, before branded brazen because of her unmarried status, now pale and haunted about the eyes. Ashamed. Broken by this judgemental neighbourhood.

Helen imagines seeking that out for herself, and feels an instant swoop of sickness. No. No, she couldn't do that. Bob would never forgive her. She'd never forgive _herself_. As much as she supports a woman's right to have autonomy over her own body, motherhood has changed her. It's not a baby yet, not really, but in her heart it _is. Her_ baby. She can't harm her own flesh and blood. Not only that, it can be so dangerous, can have so many complications, and the last thing she ever wants to do is hurt Violet and Dash. Which means she is trapped with only one way out. A tear slides down her nose and sizzles in the pan. Right now, she hates herself. Hates herself for being so _damned foolish_ —

"Mom? Hey, Mom! You're burning it! Mom!"

Helen crashes back into herself at the sound of Violet's voice, whirling around. Both she and Dash stand in the doorway, equal parts confused and frightened. Acrid burning fills her nostrils and she utters an expletive that she would have scolded Bob for, yanking the pan away from the hob. But she pulls it too quickly, and before she can stop it the whole thing has crashed into the sink, sending splashes arcing in every direction, like a gruesome blood spatter. It's the final straw.

She bursts into tears.

"Mom!" Violet cries, hurrying forward.

"I'm gonna fetch Dad!" Dash yells; he's gone and back in an instant, and she hears Bob thundering down the stairs after him.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she manages through hiccoughs, trying not to look at Violet's frightened face.

"Helen, what's going on?" says Bob quietly behind her, moving forward like he might approach a skittish animal. He holds out his hands in front of him, placating. His eyes stray about the room, taking in the mess she's made. It's just another sign of her failure.

"Nothing," she says again, swiping her knuckles over her sodden eyes. "I'm okay."

"You're not," Dash argues. He looks scared, so small for his age.

"Mom's not been feeling well all day," Bob tells them. "She told me so at lunch." He addresses her now. "Go to bed, Helen. I'll clean this up. We'll have takeout tonight. Vi, you can place the order. Get it from wherever you want."

"No, I can fix it," Helen says, but Bob fixes her with a no-nonsense stare.

"Enough, Helen," he says. "I'll take you there myself." And without waiting for her to protest he hitches her up in his arms as if she's lighter than air. To be fair, to Bob she is. She's seen him lift freight trains without breaking a sweat. He'd been doing it to show off to the ladies, back during the glory days, but damned if it hadn't got her hot under the collar watching those huge muscles popping and flexing, even as she'd tried to tell herself that Mr. Incredible was a total idiot. In a couple of strides he's out of the room, leaving Violet and Dash gaping after them, equal parts curious and afraid. She hates herself anew for causing undue anxiety.

As soon as they're in the bedroom, Bob dumps her unceremoniously onto the mattress; she bounces a little with the force, instinctively drawing her knees up to her chest.

"Stay here," Bob say firmly. "Lie down, get some rest. I'll take care of the kids. But afterwards you're going to cut the crap. I know you, and I know when something's wrong. I want to know what's troubling you and I want to help if I can. So we're going to talk, okay?"

Talking later is what she'd planned on doing anyway. She nods.

"Good," says Bob, sounding relieved. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to her forehead, running his hand down her side. His fingers skirt her stomach. He has no idea how close he is to touching their third child.

It's never a good idea to leave Vi and Dash unsupervised for long, especially when a squabble is likely to break out about what takeout should be ordered, so he leaves her there alone. Sighing, Helen stretches out along the bed, rolling onto Bob's side and burying her face in his pillow, trying to draw strength from his scent as she fights to get her emotions back under control. Everything will turn out okay, she tries to tell herself. It has to. She can't bear to think of any other scenario. Bob will come up with something, will save the day like he used to. It used to annoy the hell out of her when he snuck in before her and claimed all the glory for himself, but she craves that now. She wants his heart-before-head reasoning, his confident reassurances.

She lies there quietly, keeping her eyes tightly closed, trying to listen to and regulate her breathing. Breathing in Bob's scent helps a little. Distantly, she hears the front door open and close. The food must be here. She's hungry, but with how she's feeling right now she isn't sure that she could stomach a single mouthful. It's liable to make her sick again.

Another time passes before the door creaks open. She pushes herself up on an elbow to find Dash standing in the doorway, uncharacteristically shy. Violet is at his back.

"Hey, Mom," her son says. "Can we come in?"

"Of course, sweetie," she says, making an effort to smile. "You don't need to ask."

They scramble into the room at once, clambering onto the bed either side of her.

"Dad's cleaning the kitchen up," Dash informs her, star fishing on his back and peering up at her from his upside-down position. "He said we could come and see you while he did that."

"We saved you some food," says Vi, drawing her knees up to her chest.

"That's very thoughtful. Thank you."

Violet tilts her head to one side. "Are you _sure_ you're okay, Mom?"

"I'm fine, honey. Dad's right, I'm just feeling a little under the weather at the moment, that's all. I'll be as right as rain again soon enough, don't you worry."

Violet's expression doesn't change. Helen hates seeing her like that. She knows that Violet shoulders far more fear than a child of her age should, and the last thing she wants to do is contribute to more anxiety.

"Honey, I promise, everything's fine," she tells her firmly. "Come here, hmm?"

Violet shuffles closer to her, and Helen shifts on to her back so she can wrap an arm around each of her children. Dash buries his face into her neck, Vi rests her cheek against her shoulder, wrapping her arm around her waist. Helen stretches just enough that she can run her fingers through each of their hairs, relishing the feel of it. Dash's has almost the exact same texture as his father's, yet another way that they are alike, and Violet's is so silky that her fingers simply glide through it without a hitch.

"I love you both so much," she whispers, her heart contracting in her chest. They're the truest words she's ever spoken. She would sacrifice herself in a heartbeat for her kids, with no second thought. Violet, who takes her breath away when she smiles because it's _her_ smile shining back at her, right down to the last quirk, the child who doesn't really look like either her or Bob suddenly transformed. Dash, who has a constant cheeky glint in his eye, who is so lovable that no one can stay angry at him for long, no matter what he might have done. Anything could happen to them, but what she feels for her children is unconditional. In time, she's sure that she'll feel the same way about this third baby. Nothing is stronger than a mother's love, after all. It's the thought that's keeping her going. The alternative is too frightening to contemplate, paralyses her. She can't even think about what it will be like if she can't bond with it.

"Love you too, Mom," says Dash, snuggling against her with a smile on his face, his eyes drifting closed. Helen scratches his scalp, breathing in the scent of his skin. She lets her own eyes drift shut, letting their proximity calm her.

* * *

There's a soft knock on the door, and Bob pokes his head in. Helen blinks blearily, raising her head.

"Hey," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "It's getting late, you know."

"Is it?" she asks. Her voice is scratchy, and she registers dimly that it's fully dark outside now.

Bob chuckles. "Yeah. Have you been asleep?"

"Must have," she says. She can't move. The kids are still pressed against her, and her shoulder has gone dead where Violet's heavy head is resting. "What time is it?"

"Gone eight-thirty. The kids must be tired."

"Well, Dash never sits still. I'm not surprised he's crashed."

"You hungry? We saved you some takeout."

She's still not sure if she can stomach anything, but she knows that she's got to try. "Sure, I'll have something. I'll come down for it."

"You're a little tied up, though," he teases. "Need a hand?"

"Please," she says, and watches him cross the room and sweep Dash up in one effortless movement, balancing him the length of his forearm. Dash doesn't even stir, and Helen feels the corner of her mouth lifting. Now that she's free on one side, she flattens her body and slips out from beneath her daughter. Violet stirs at once, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

"Mom, what's going on?" she mutters.

"Nothing, honey," she says. "Just going to get something to eat. You can go now, if you like. I'm okay."

Violet stares at her as if she's scrutinising for any flicker of untruth. "Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"I'll look after her," Bob puts in. "There's nothing to worry about."

"And I love you for wanting to check on me and look after me," says Helen, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Thank you."

The hug that Violet bestows on her is shy and quick. "I love you, Mom."

With that, she slips off the bed and heads out of the room. Bob follows her, still cradling Dash on his arm. Helen waits a beat before dragging herself back downstairs to the kitchen. She _does_ feel better for her nap, for taking the time to slow down and be with her kids. It hasn't resolved the agonising conflict deep inside, but it _has_ helped to ground her. Whatever happens, they are the most important thing.

Bob has left a plate of food warming in the oven, and she retrieves it, taking it over to the table. She forces a few mouthfuls down for the baby's sake. It's not long before she hears Bob's heavy tread on the stairs. Seconds later he appears in the doorway, huge and imposing and yet still so soft and gentle around the edges.

"So, you _are_ okay?" he asks as he moves into the room, planting himself down on the chair opposite her.

"Of course," she says, mustering a smile for him. "Anyway, stop fishing. We said we'd talk about it later."

Bob gives her that easy grin, the one that always makes her heart flutter. "Hey, I've gotta fish with you. You like to keep me guessing."

Helen rolls her eyes. "While we were dating, maybe."

He smirks. "Sure. Just…promise me that you're not going anywhere?"

"I can promise you that," she says, stretching her arm across the table so that she can rest her hand atop his. "Besides, you're a tough guy to shake."

It's his turn to roll his eyes.

Helen retracts her hand so that she can carry on eating. The weight of Bob's gaze upon her is heavy, but it isn't uncomfortable. She's glad that he's there, glad that she can always rely upon him. It's a companiable silence, and having him there stabilises her. For the first time all day, she finally starts to relax.

Once she'd finished eating, Bob takes the things.

"Go and sit down," he says. "I'll take care of everything, you go and relax."

"Thanks, sweetie," she says. "I love you."

"I love you too."

She leaves him in the kitchen and goes into the lounge, swiping up the remote control. Something light on the television, that's what she needs. She finds some cheesy comedy and settles herself down on one of the swivel chairs. When Bob comes in, she hops up to give him space to sit down. It sags a little under his weight, and he drapes his arms down the sides, stretching out his feet. It's her invitation to snuggle on his lap rather than taking the second chair, and she takes him up on that at once, curling herself over him and resting her head against his chest. His arm comes down around her, resting on the side of her ass, keeping her cocooned close to him. She loves that more than anything. It's like being protected by a shield that is both soft and steely, and there's no place on earth she'd rather be. In turn, Bob seems reassured by her unchanged desire to snuggle, and presses a kiss to her hair.

It's not perfect; she can't concentrate on the TV programme, her mind constantly wandering to the conversation that looms large and foreboding in front of her. The takeout food sits heavy in her stomach, as unsettling as the other presence there. If Bob senses her restlessness then he doesn't comment on it, moving his large hand in soothing circles against her.

At ten-thirty they head up to bed. Helen can feel the weight of Bob's trepidation now, like a back-breaking boulder. Bob murmurs something about checking on the kids. She heads into their room alone. Instead of beginning her nightly routine, however, she sits on the end of the bed, bare feet planted in the soft carpet, picking idly at a loose thread on the arm of her blouse.

When Bob at last enters the room, he closes the door firmly behind him.

"So now we can talk?" he asks.

Helen heaves a sigh. No more putting it off. "Yeah."

He looks tentative, shrunken somehow, despite his large frame. He perches himself on the edge of the bed beside her, reaching out to take her hand in his. His touch is impossibly soft for a man of his stature.

"So?" he prompts.

There's no easy way to say this. No easy way of upending their lives all over again. For once, Bob isn't solely responsible for the changes that are to come. _She_ is more so. She should've been more careful.

"I'm pregnant," she blurts.

It does not seem to register in Bob's brain for several long seconds; he stares at her, uncomprehending, mouth agog. And then he blinks, his whole pallor going pale.

" _What?"_ he gasps.

Helen drags her fingers over her face. They're trembling. "I'm pregnant."

Stupefied silence reigns in the aftermath of her announcement. Bob's face is blank, and she cannot discern what he is feeling.

"Pregnant?" he croaks at last. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she says miserably. "I went to the doctors this afternoon. You put me on to the idea, actually."

"I did?"

"You said that I never take a rest. And it got me thinking back to the last time I was sick, before this. It was with Dash, don't you remember?"

A little frown creases his brow as he strains to think back. "I remember..." he says slowly.

Those early days of pregnancy _had_ been horrible. It had been difficult to keep anything down for long, and it had left her exhausted and drained. As it had progressed, she'd developed an unquenchable craving for chocolate. With Vi, it had been pickles, of all things. She _hates_ pickles. The mood swings had been even worse. Half of the time _she_ hadn't even known what she was feeling, never mind poor Bob.

"It's the same pattern, don't you see? The sickness without really being ill, the tiredness. So I managed to see the doctor this afternoon and he confirmed it. We're having another baby."

"But...but we've always been so careful," says Bob. Helen can see the cogs in his head turning oh so slowly, trying to make sense of something that has no sense.

"We haven't been," she says, wringing her hands. "And even then we know that nothing is fool-proof."

Bob's bewildered expression doesn't change. "But when...?" His nose scrunches up, evidently casting his mind back over the last few months. There will be too many memories for him to catalogue, she knows that.

"Jacksonville," she supplies, and this time she sees him connecting the dots, finding the answer. He heaves a heavy, surprised sigh, running his hand through his hair.

"Jacksonville," he echoes. "Shit."

"There was that one night," Helen ploughs on needlessly. "We'd been out to dinner and dancing, had a little too much to drink, and we didn't..." She tails off. Her words don't encompass any of the emotions of that night. The irony is that until today it had been a glorious memory, one of the best nights of her life, the kind of night that can be conjured up in sheepish, excited smiles when they catch each other's eye in particularly mundane moments, to be re-enacted in the dead of night. Perhaps it had been the fact that the kids weren't around, that they weren't constantly checking and censoring themselves in case the kids stumbled across a mortifying situation, that they could be uninhibited and _themselves_ for the first time in years, more like Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl than Bob and Helen Parr, tired with the unfairness of the world. That evening they'd both shaded the wrong side of sober, not too drunk to know exactly what they wanted and how much they needed each other, not sober enough to think things through logically, to see beyond that desperate, burning desire.

It had only been the following day, when Helen had woken past lunchtime for the first time since the glory days, aching in all of the right places, Bob still snoring at her side, that she had reassembled the jumbled memories of the last endless hours and realised the mistake they had made. She'd been terrified, anxious, but Bob had managed to calm her, pointing out that one slip up— _three,_ she thinks silently now—was unlikely to be their downfall, that although they had fallen pregnant with Violet _and_ Dash pretty soon after they'd started trying, it certainly wasn't on the first attempt.

How wrong he's been proven.

"So you're...?"

"About three months," she confirms, reading his mind. "It fits with the timeline."

"Wow," says Bob again, the bemused edge to his voice not dissipating. But then he surprises her by _grinning_ , a wide, joyous thing that lights up his whole face. It's the smile that made her fall in love with him.

"You're _happy_ about this?" she asks him incredulously, perhaps a bit more affronted than she'd intended.

"Well, yeah," Bob says baldly.

Helen remembers that he was the one who'd wanted the big family, the picket fence. He'd grown up an only child, like she had, and had been fixated on the idea of having a happy, full home. Considering his often-demoralising indifference to their civilian life, she'd thought that his desires might have changed since Dash's birth and her expressed wishes.

He must read some of the perplexity on her face, because he backtracks a little. "Look, I'm not saying that this is ideal. It's not, I get that. But another little bit of you and me in the world, how can I be upset about that?"

"But I don't…" Helen can feel the tears threatening again, a maelstrom of agony that she doesn't know how to process. "I don't think I can go through all this again, Bob."

"Hey, you're not doing this alone, are you? You've got me, honey. I'll always be there."

"But it's not just that, is it?" she says. "We've _just_ got settled here. I can't take having to move again because we've been exposed."

Bob shifts uncomfortably—he knows that he's the one to blame for all but one of the numerous times they've been forced to up sticks for their own safety. "We don't know that'll happen."

"But it's a constant fear, don't you see?" Helen says, balling her hands into fists. "I don't think I can cope."

"Hey, don't talk like that," he says, sounding afraid, as if it's never occurred to him that she could ever feel that way. "Helen, you're the strongest woman I've ever had the honour of knowing, never mind having the good luck of building a life with. I've seen you take out so many villains without even a shred of fear. There's nothing you can't do. You're flexible."

She rolls her eyes at his poor attempt at humour, even as she dabs under them. "It was _awful_ , having to take Violet or Dash somewhere when they were toddlers. I spent the whole time terrified that Violet would just become a pile of floating clothes again, or that people would spot Dash zooming round the place like a hamster in a ball. And I hate myself for feeling like this, Bob, I do, but this baby might be able to do anything. Like…light itself on fire or create tsunamis when it doesn't get its own way or…or break glass when it cries."

Bob snorts. "Break glass when it cries? Honey, no son of mine will be like Phylange!"

"It's not funny!" Helen says furiously. "I'm _tired_ of it, Bob! I'm tired of uprooting our lives and having to start afresh! I'm tired of being scared! I'm tired of waiting for the axe to drop! Violet and Dash are finally at ages where they can control their powers, and we already have enough trouble keeping Dash in line!" Dash is too much like Bob, his mirror right through to the bone, constantly craving attention and validation.

She takes a quivering breath, bringing her fists down on her knees. Her heart physically _hurts_ ; it's as if it's fissuring in two in her chest and she can _feel_ it happening, tearing her apart at the seams. She cannot give voice to it, but right now she empathises with Violet so much. Right now, with the weight of so much on her back, threatening to break even her flexible spine, she wishes that things could be different. That she was normal. That she was different.

But no. Helen shakes away that treacherous, awful thought before it can lodge itself anywhere. Wanting things to be different implies that she wishes she'd made different choices. And she does not want that. It would mean not having Bob. Not having her precious children, for they are as much a part of him as they are of her and would never have existed without their lives taking the courses that they did. For all of his faults Bob is still a good man, and she is so very lucky to have him. He's a bit arrogant at times, but that's more Mr. Incredible than Bob, who has always treated her with such tenderness, such respect. She is more than Elastigirl to him, more than just a commodity on his arm.

So she does not wish that things were different. She loves Bob, her kids. _She loves her family_. She would not be without any of them for anything in the world.

The thought calms her, and she takes a deep breath, forcing her hands to relax.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean to snap at you."

"It's okay," Bob says at once. "Don't be sorry." He lifts his arm up in a reconciliatory manner, and she takes the proffered olive branch, ducking down beneath him and moulding herself against him. He kisses her temple. "I do understand how you feel, you know. But we can make it work, Helen, I promise you. And even though you don't think so, there _is_ a chance that this baby will be normal. Rick was surprised when Vi showed her powers, and definitely didn't think Dash would have them too, you know that. So even if it doesn't feel that way now, our chances of having a normal baby are probably pretty high."

"But what are we gonna do about the rest of it?" she asks, agonised.

"The same as we've always done. Work through it and conquer it. It _is_ hard for babies to control their powers, but we can put things in place to try to limit any public damage if it does turn out that the baby has powers. Look, there's never gonna be an easy way to do this, Helen. These things aren't in our control, no matter how much you _like_ control." He pokes her side gently, smirking at her. She ignores him pointedly. "We're just gonna have to take things step by step, day by day. But I can promise you that we're all going to be okay. Another addition to the family just means that there's more love to share and go around."

"Since when did you get so sentimental?" she mutters, sniffing.

"Since I realised that I didn't actually think of you as a thorn in my side, even though I didn't want to admit it," he teases.

Helen tries to glower at him, but his words have had the desired effect and she feels the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

"Dry your tears, honey," Bob says, soft as velvet as he snatches up a handkerchief and gently runs it over her face. "I love you."

"I love you too," she whispers, and allows him to fold her into his arms in a huge bear hug. She presses her forehead against his shoulder and breathes him in, squeezing him as tightly as she can, needing that reassurance. She knows he barely feels it, but he recognises her need and tightens his own embrace just a little. He knows she can take it. After a few minutes of silence, feeling his heartbeat against her chest, she confesses, "I'm scared, Bob."

"There's nothing to be scared of, honey. I told you: we'll sort it."

"Not…not just of that," she says. The words feel like poison on her lips, and she can almost taste it in the air between them.

"Then what?" says Bob, his tone so gentle. "You can tell me anything, honey."

She knows that they don't communicate as well as they should; there are so many missteps in their relationship. If they _did_ communicate better, perhaps they wouldn't have needed to move as many times as they have. At the same time, she's terrified that he will be horrified by what's on her mind. And still she has to tell him. Has to let him know the worst of her. She takes a deep breath, focusing her gaze on the buttons down the front of his shirt.

"I'm scared that…that I won't love this baby," she whispers. There it is, out in the open. Shameful. Dirty. Unnatural.

Bob is silent for a long moment, processing her words. But then, with the same gentleness as before, he says, "Helen, look at me."

She physically can't. Two big fingers slip gently under her chin, encouraging her head up. She has no choice but to raise her gaze.

There's no judgement in her husband's gaze. No disappointment, no disgust. He isn't questioning her ability to be a mother. He _understands_ , and the relief of that knowledge makes her choke on a sob. Before she can stop herself she's crying again, clutching fistfuls of his shirt in her hands, soaking him through. Bob utters not one word of complaint, dedicating himself to rubbing soft, soothing circles on her back with one huge hand, burying nonsensical sounds into the top of her head like she used to do with Vi and Dash when they were upset. She clings to him tighter.

When she's all cried out, Helen pulls back, wiping at her face. Now that the sudden flood of emotion has been drained away she feels embarrassed. She is not the kind of person governed and led by sentiment, and her display of vulnerability has left her feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. She's not the sort of woman to fall apart at the slightest hint of adversary. She's _Elastigirl_ , if only still deep in her heart.

"Sorry," she mutters.

"Honey, I keep telling you, don't apologise. There's absolutely nothing to be sorry for. Okay?"

She nods, still not quite believing him. But Bob's expression hasn't changed, and she feels confident enough to reach out and twine their fingers together. She rubs her thumb over the thick metal of his wedding band, a symbol for all that they are united no matter what comes. For better, for worse. More than just Mr. Incredible and Elastigirl.

"I don't want you to worry about not loving this baby, Helen," Bob says firmly. "You will. You're a natural with kids, and you love Violet and Dash so much. You don't need me to tell you that. I couldn't have wished for a better mother to my children, and you make me want to be a better dad. You teach me new things about parenthood every day, and I am so lucky to have you."

Bob doesn't usually wax lyrical at her. He's always been a man of action rather than of words. He charmed her _because_ his attempts at being charming were so endearingly poor. Hidden in the back of her cupboard is a box, filled with little notes and terrible attempts at poetry that Bob slipped to her when they were dating. He has a messy scrawl and they're riddled in spelling errors, but they painted a path for her to follow, taking her on a journey that ended in all of the things she'd sought to avoid. Bob probably doesn't even know that she still has them all, but she takes them out whenever their marriage is feeling perilously strained, after more arguments about taking selfish risks or the need for Dash's bad behaviour not to be encouraged or more accusations that she wants to erase the parts of themselves that make them who they are. They are much-needed reminders that despite the fiery arguments, there is still plenty of passion. Still plenty of love.

Right now, his words are exactly what she needs.

"It's understandable," Bob continues. "It's a shock and it's not something we planned. But just because you're not feeling elated now, it doesn't mean that you're a bad mom or that you're not gonna love this baby as much as you love Vi and Dash. You will. We _all_ will. This baby is gonna have more love than it knows what to do with. You wait, honey. We'll look back on this in a few years and laugh and wonder what all the fuss was about."

Helen hopes he's right. No, she's _sure_ he's right.

"Thank you," she murmurs, moving so that she can wrap her arms tight around him again. Bob presses his cheek to her, giving her a gentle squeeze in turn.

"Don't mention it," he says. "What are husbands for?"

Helen tries for a smile. "Well, I keep you around for a couple of things."

"Hey," Bob protests good-naturedly, poking her.

She laughs shakily, feeling a little more like her old self for the first time all day.

"Right," Bob says at length. "Let's get into bed. It's been a draining day, and you need all the rest you can get."

"I'm not an invalid," Helen grumbles, but she feels ten times lighter than she did. Talking with Bob has been a catharsis. She slips out of his grip and stretches her arm across to the set of drawers to retrieve a fresh pair of pyjamas. She can feel her husband's eyes on her as she stands up to change; he's cataloguing, analysing, wondering if either of them missed any of the warning signs. After all, he knows her body almost as intimately as she does. She raises her gaze to her reflection, turning herself sideways so she can scrutinise herself. Yes, there is actually a small swelling there. It's not the kind of thing that would be noticeable if she hadn't gone looking for it—which, of course, she hasn't—but now she wonders how she could have missed it. She wonders if Bob might have observed it, and perhaps simply put it down to a little extra weight gain, too polite to comment.

She keeps her gaze on that tiny swell right until it's covered by her pyjama top, then moves her attention to Bob through the mirror. The look of sheer rapture on his face bolsters her slightly. He's right. Everything is going to be okay. She's got her family and everything will work itself out.

When she's completed her nightly routine, Bob stands up to do the same, leaving her to snuggle down between the sheets. She's tired suddenly, and desperate to have her husband's presence beside her.

It isn't long before he's back, and the mattress sinks in that soothing way as he gets himself comfortable, shuffling up against her and anchoring her against him with a massive forearm. Helen melts into him. Bob moves his hand so that his palm is resting flat against her stomach, where their baby is growing. He'd always done this with her other pregnancies, as if his touch would prevent any harm coming to them, and she rests her hand on top of his, doubling the protection.

"Let's keep this between just us for a few days," she murmurs.

"Why?" asks Bob, brushing his mouth against the side of her neck.

"Because I don't want the kids linking up my…unease today with the news of the baby," she replies. She's pretty sure that in a week's time it'll pass right over Dash's head, but Violet is much more difficult to interpret. She's astute and clever, and likely to put two and two together. Helen doesn't want to cause her any further, unnecessary worry.

"Okay," Bob agrees. "That sounds like a plan."

"Let's hope Dash isn't too disappointed. He likes to be the baby."

"I'm sure they'll both be happy. Vi will be a great older sister, and I'm sure Dash will relish the role of chief troublemaker."

Helen groans. "Don't say that. I don't think I can cope with another Dash." But she doesn't mean it. Her son tests her patience frequently, but she adores him. She simply can't stay mad at that cheeky, cheesy grin.

Bob chuckles too, clearly reading her mind. He tucks himself against her and whispers in her ear, "You're gonna love every minute of it, honey."

* * *

The following week they gather Vi and Dash in the sitting room for an informal family meeting.

"What's going on?" Dash asks, swinging circles in one of the swivel chairs.

Bob glances at her, and Helen shrugs. She'd rather he take the lead on this one. His enthusiasm will go across better; the idea isn't quite as scary as it was last week now that she has her husband to share that with, but she's still not quite got over her anxiety, either.

"Well, Mom and I have some exciting news for you," he says, draping his arm around her shoulders as they hold council. "You're gonna have another brother or sister!"

Violet's eyes widen, and colour rises to her cheeks. Dash scrunches up his nose.

"Mom's having a baby?" he asks, not sounding totally pleased by this development.

"Yeah!" Bob grins. "We've just found out and we couldn't wait to share it with you! This is great news, guys."

Neither of them look convinced. Vi has ducked her head so that her sheet of black hair falls into her face and hides it. Dash frowns.

"So I'm not gonna be the youngest anymore?" he pouts. Helen knows that he's thrived off being the baby, particularly with Bob.

"No, but you're gonna be the cool older brother," says Bob. "That's a good role to have, right? The baby is going to look up to you and Vi and they'll worship you. Plus it means that you get to have more responsibility."

"Maybe," says Dash thoughtfully, clearly warming to the idea. "Hey, maybe this one will have super speed too and I can teach them how to run really, really fast!"

"We don't know whether this baby is going to have any superpowers yet," says Bob, "but you can if he or she does."

Helen glares at him. Evidently realising that he's in a whole lot of trouble if he continues in that vein, he adds hastily, "Well, maybe you shouldn't teach them how to run really fast, Dash, at least until they're old enough to control their powers. We don't want to cause any more trouble for Mom, do we?"

Dash folds his arms, looking disappointed.

"And that's another thing," Bob continues, glancing at them both. "We've all got to be better about not stressing Mom out, okay? Stress can harm the baby and we don't want that to happen. So there are some new ground rules. No back-chatting. No disobedience. If Mom asks you to do something, I expect you to do it. Help her out with chores. Look after her."

Both kids look less than thrilled at the prospect, and Helen fights to hide a smile. Pregnant or not, she suspects that she'll have a difficult time persuading Dash to clean his room.

"And you don't know if we're getting a baby brother or a baby sister?" Dash asks.

"No, honey," says Helen. "We won't know that until they're born."

"And when will that be?"

"Not until the summer."

"But that's _ages_ away," Dash complains.

"Good thing, too," Bob chuckles. "There's a lot to prepare for. We didn't think we'd be having any more kids so we don't have any paraphernalia left, just a couple of your things we kept back for sentimental reasons."

"Why didn't you think you were gonna have another baby?" asks Dash. Violet squirms uncomfortably.

"Never you mind," Helen interrupts. Her focus is on her daughter. She's been so quiet through this entire conversation, and Helen doesn't know how to read it. She'll get Bob to take Dash out for ice cream or something so that she can probe her gently in a less embarrassing situation.

"Well _I_ hope it's a baby brother," Dash announces, sneaking a sly glance at his sister. "Girls are annoying."

"Well _I_ hope it _is_ a girl," Violet shoots back. "I've already got one annoying little brother. I don't want two!"

"Anyway," Helen says quickly, sensing another argument brewing between them. She's not in the mood to referee. "Do you have any questions?"

"Yeah!" says Dash, instantly distracted. He tilts his head to the side, peering up at them both. "How'd you get pregnant, Mom?"

Helen feels herself reddening right down to her roots, a curse of her red-head genes.

Violet's whole head disappears, but not before she catches a glimpse of the utter mortification on her face.

"Who's for milk and cookies?" exclaims Bob loudly, clapping his hands together, and hurries out of the room before another word can be uttered, leaving Helen fuming as she tries to think of a way for someone as flexible as herself to wriggle her way out of this embarrassing scenario.

* * *

The days go by, and with every day that passes, Helen finds that Bob's words come true.

Things are good.

Once the early sickness had worn off, she'd enjoyed her previous pregnancies. This one, despite her reservations, is no different.

Usually the flexible one, she relishes the way that the rest of the family morph to her needs for a change. Bob is so attentive, zealously so, and it makes her feel warm. In the months prior to this he'd been distant, pulling away from them, and she'd started to worry that she was losing him to the memories of the glory days all over again. It's nice to have him focused and involved. Nice to feel like she's _loved_. For a man renowned for his super strength, Bob can be incredibly gentle, and he gives her the most _amazing_ massages. Helen takes advantage of those—by the end of the sessions she's gone boneless, a melted mass of limbs. Bob just smirks at her.

There are other advantages to being pregnant, too. The second trimester brings its own benefits. Before, she'd started to feel run-down and tired. She's still tired now, of course, but she's had a new lease of life in other ways. She feels more attractive than she had a few months ago, weary and lonely as she'd been. Her thighs, hips, and ass have thickened out a little, but there's an appreciative gleam in Bob's eyes whenever he sees her. It's something she takes advantage of time and time again, needing him with a fierce desire that borders on the embarrassing—especially when Bob smirks at her in that knowing, arrogant way that just brings back memories of the glory days and embarrasses her even _more_ because it reminds her of how gallingly attractive she'd found him with those huge, _incredible_ muscles. And Bob is certainly not a passive participant—in fact, a lot of the time _he_ is the instigator, sliding a sneaky hand over her backside when the kids aren't looking, which makes her face flame, and giving her that look that lets her know that he wants her, and that she's in for quite the time once the kids aren't around. That look leaves her quite insensible for the rest of the day. But it's good and it's fun and it brings them even closer.

The thing that cements it all is feeling the baby moving for the first time. It comes in the most mundane moments, as she's lounging in the sitting room nursing a cup of tea, and the sudden, bubble-like fizzing almost makes her spill it in surprise. She sits stock-still, her hand tentatively moving to smooth over the small roundness hidden by her baggy blouse. In response to the touch, the fluttering grows the tiniest bit more pronounced, as if even at this early stage the baby recognises its mother's touch.

This time, the few tears that well up are ones of joy. Joy and relief. It's as if the ancient connection has sparked into life. She has another child growing inside her. Another child to protect at any cost. Another child to love with everything she has.

And she will love it. Of that she has no doubt now. There's a baby growing inside her, another part of her and Bob, another precious part to their family, no matter what might come.

She tells Bob when he arrives home from work and delights in the way that his huge palm smooths desperately over the surface of her rounded tummy, impatient to feel it moving even though they both know it's too early for that.

It makes it even more special when he does feel that first kick. His whole faces simply lights up, and she's pretty sure that there are tears in his eyes too.

"I never thought I'd feel that again," he says gruffly. "Hello, little one. This is your daddy speaking. You just keep being good for your mommy, eh?"

He receives several enthusiastic kicks in response—clearly the baby likes the sound of his voice.

Violet and Dash's reactions are special, too. Dash has never experienced this before and Vi barely remembers it. Dash makes it his personal mission to get the baby to kick more for him than anyone else, talking nineteen to the dozen about all the fun things that he's going to teach it. Violet's solemn little face brightens when she feels the baby wriggling.

That's really cool," she admits.

They enjoy picking out things for the baby too. Helen thought it was a good way to get them excited and involved rather than feeling jealous and left out, and it's worked a treat. And it's been nice, having the full family input, holding an item of clothing picked out by Dash or a toy that Violet liked the look of.

Life isn't perfect, but right now it's on its way to getting there.

* * *

By the ninth month, Helen doesn't care what superpower the baby might have to wreak havoc on their lives, she just wants it out. She's fat, her ankles are swollen, she's sweating in places she didn't even know she could sweat from in the height of the summer heat, and everything takes an inordinate amount of effort, which isn't helping her temper. Bob and the kids pick up on the warning signs and are conspicuously absent when she explodes.

So all in all it is a _relief_ when her waters break. She is a woman of action, and she springs into it at once. All of this waiting around bores her.

Bob answers the phone on the second ring. "Bob Parr, Claims."

"Honey, it's time," she says.

Distantly, she hears a thud, as if he's knocked something from his desk. He swears. "Are you sure?"

She rolls her eyes, even though he can't see her. "I've done this twice before, Bob. Yes, I'm sure. My waters have just broken."

There's a distant clunk and more swearing, and Helen deduces that he's trying to juggle the phone and pick the things that he's dropped.

"Are you okay?" he asks frantically. "The baby's not coming yet, is it? God, I need to see Mr. Huph and let him know. Is he even in the office today? I can't remember. Maybe I should just come—"

" _Bob_ ," Helen says firmly. "Calm down!" Honestly, why is it a universal requirement for a man to fall apart as soon as labour is involved? He's faced a shower of bullets with a grin on his face, overcome difficult adversaries without breaking a sweat, and here he is, falling to pieces at the mere mention of her broken waters. "Go and see if Mr. Huph is in the office, and if he isn't then just leave a message with his secretary. He's going to have to let you go whether he wants to or not."

"And I need to call Lucius!" says Bob, the fluster still evident.

" _I'll_ ring Lucius. He's already said he'll pick Vi and Dash up from school and keep them for us, so we haven't got anything to worry about. I'll collect the bags together and Lucius can drop by with the kids to pick them up."

"Okay, got it," says Bob, sounding relieved to be taking the orders on this particular matter.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Go!"

"Oh, right!" There's more scrabbling about, another distant thud. "I love you, honey!"

Then the line goes dead, and Helen replaces the receiver, grimacing a little as pain flickers through her body. The problem with having the power of flexibility means that it's very hard to make the birth seem natural when she has to fight against every instinct to end the pain. She waits until it's passed before straightening up.

It was Bob's favourite catchphrase as Mr. Incredible, but it's applicable now, too.

It's show time.

* * *

How can she ever not have wanted him, Helen wonders as she stares down in awe at the tiny bundle in her arms. Her youngest child is _perfect_ , hairless and gummy, with huge blue eyes that stare up at her. She wonders if _he'll_ be the baby to mirror her—Bob has already won the monopoly on blue eyes. Now, cradling her son so close to her, Helen can admit that she'd like it if he did look like her. It was a dream she'd held long ago, after all.

There's a knock on the door, and Bob pokes his head in, looking oddly vulnerable. It's not something that she often associates with her husband, who is cocky and overconfident and so _big_ , but it is an endearing sight all the same.

"Hi," he says softly. His gaze has been drawn immediately to the bundle in her arms.

"Hey," she responds, leaning her head back against the propped-up pillows.

"The nurse said it was okay for me to come in." His shyness is the sweetest thing she's ever seen. She's never seen him as timid as he has been when faced with parenthood. It's his third time now, and the look on his face hasn't altered.

"Of course it is," she says, shooting him a grin. "Come and meet your son, Bob."

"Another son?" he breathes, his eyes brightening with wonder.

"Yeah," Helen laughs. He's bigger than Dash was but still impossibly tiny, fragile in her arms.

"Wow," says Bob with a breathless laugh, coming to a rest by the bed. He looks decidedly crumpled, she notices, his shirt untucked from his trousers, several buttons open, hair falling over his forehead, a five o'clock shadow darkening his cheeks and chin.

"What's that you've got?" Helen asks, indicating his hand with a nod of her head. Bob looks down, surprised, as if he's forgotten that he's even holding anything.

"Oh," he says, "Oh, yeah. Had to step out for a few minutes, go for a walk. And I saw this in a shop window and it felt _right_ , you know?" He holds out his hand and shows her the teddy bear, bigger than their son is. Helen's heart does a little backflip in her chest at her husband's thoughtfulness, but she can't help teasing him.

" _You_ had to step outside?"

He has the grace to look sheepish. "Hey, it's not as easy as you might think, sitting there sweating. I'm used to being proactive, getting things done. It's horrible feeling so helpless."

"I'd trade places if I could," she quips, wincing just at the memory of what she's been through. Labour hasn't been as hard on her as it might have on other mothers—when the pain came, her body reacted in the only way it knew how, lessening the labour time considerably—but it still hadn't been a walk in the park, and it both amuses and infuriates her that the men of the world seem to fall to pieces when their women have to be so strong.

He's…he's cute, isn't he?" says Bob, attention once more consumed by the swaddle. Helen shifts the blanket just slightly so that he can get a better look at the baby's round little face.

"He is," she agrees. She tries to shuffle to one side, biting back a groan, so that Bob has enough room to slip on to the narrow little bed beside her. It creaks threateningly and they both freeze, locking gazes, and then begin to laugh.

"I love you," Bob says, leaning forward to press a chaste, fierce kiss to her mouth.

"I love you too," she responds, wishing that she could wrap her arm around him. But hers are occupied with a very important task right now, and Bob always knows what she wants, for his own arm descends around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him gently so that she can nestle against his side. She relaxes, resting her head against him, unable to take her eyes away from the perfect little thing lying in her arms.

Bob's voice cracks a little as he reiterates, "He's beautiful, Helen."

The perfect little button nose. Tiny, tiny hands and feet. Little cooing sounds as he fidgets imperceptibly in his blankets, his huge eyes weighing up this new intruder.

"This is your daddy," she tells him, her own voice wavering. Bob reaches out tentatively, his fingers huge in comparison with the baby's whole body.

"Hi, little fella," he whispers, barely brushing the soft dome of his head. The baby lets out a little whimper and Bob draws back, startled, but Helen laughs.

"Don't look so petrified," she says. "He's only saying hello."

"It's been a long time since I last did this," Bob replies. "I can't remember babies being this small."

Helen remembers just how terrified he'd been the first time around, when she'd fallen pregnant with Violet. He'd been elated at the news, but as the initial euphoria had worn off, it had given way to Bob's insecurities. He'd spent his whole life petrified that he would forget his own strength and hurt someone, and although she had managed to quell some of those fears because they complemented each other so perfectly, they had returned with a renewed vengeance at the thought of him accidentally hurting his own precious, fragile baby, and none of her reassurances that that wouldn't happen seemed to get through to him. Those nightmares had kept him up for months on end, and hadn't dissipated until he'd had the real physical evidence in his quivering arms. She remembers the sweat beading his forehead in the pale clinical lighting, his whole body stiff as a mannequin, Violet as safe as could be balanced in those massive arms. It's an image that Helen will keep locked away deep inside for the rest of her life, so precious that simply thinking about it gives her a rush of raw emotion, like an echo back to the moment that she realised she was in love for the first time.

"I have faith that you remember the motions," she tells him now. "Wanna hold him?"

Experience over twelve years has laid most of Bob's insecurities about hurting his kids to rest, and he nods eagerly, dutifully holding out his arms. The transfer across is one that has been many times before, if not for many years now, and soon their son is nestled in his father's safe embrace. Helen leans back a little, determined to relish this sight.

Bob's expression is elated as he stares down at him. "I can't believe I helped to make him."

Helen snorts. "Well, you'd better start."

He chuckles shakily; there are tears in the corners of his eyes. She pretends not to notice. "Do we have a name for him yet? We can't keep referring to him as 'baby'."

"I don't know, it's pretty cute," she comments, then sobers slightly. "I still like John, you know."

It's a name that was placed on the table and never quite taken off. Helen knows that Bob was close with his father, and she thinks that it might be a nice way for him to celebrate that.

She knows that he loves the idea, but he's still so sweet about the whole thing. "But what about you? Wouldn't you like to name him after your own dad?"

Helen shrugs, making sure that she catches his eye. "I had my way with Dash's middle name. That was my choice." She knows that Bob infers her meaning. She could have named Dash after her own father, if she'd wanted. Instead, she'd chosen to name him after her husband, because he is good and kind and strong in his beliefs of right and wrong. Despite his flaws, he is a good role model for their children, and she wanted to honour him with that.

"So what other options are there?"

They both fall silent, each of them staring down at their son. He seems to know that he's the main attraction, for he blinks those big blue eyes and gurgles. Helen's mind is blank. They've spent _hours_ debating baby names back and forth, but neither of them have come up with anything concrete. She half-wishes that they'd had another girl—at least they'd had more selections for that eventuality.

After a time, Bob begins to chuckle, his frame making the bed shake.

"What?" she asks him, her lips turning up slightly at his evident amusement.

"I think I've just thought of the perfect name," he says.

She raises an eyebrow. "Should I be worried that it's making you _laugh_?"

"Not at all." His smile is sly. "I was just thinking…John Jackson has a nice ring to it."

Helen blinks at him, feeling her cheeks heating immediately. If she had more strength, she'd reach out and give him a smack, but not even Elastigirl can recover that quickly from childbirth. She settles instead for glaring at him.

"We are _not_ calling him that!" she growls.

"Why not?" Bob says innocently. "It's a cute name. He could be our little Jack-Jack. Come on, you've got to admit that it's cute. It'll have all the other suburban moms melting."

Little Jack-Jack. Helen's scowl deepens, because it _does_ sound irritatingly cute. Even so, she won't be overpowered that easily. "Bob, we're not naming him after the place he was conceived!"

"Oh, come on, who's ever gonna find that out?" Bob smirks. "I don't know about you, but I certainly wasn't intending on sharing those memories with anyone else. It'd be a fun little joke for the two of us. He'll always remind us of a special weekend, and he's gonna be so precious to us because he's our last. Our little baby, Helen. Little Jack-Jack."

"Stop it!" she grumbles, but now her mouth twitches too. She can't help it; as much as he infuriates her, Bob's humour is infectious.

"You like it, I can tell," he goads, grinning. "Jack-Jack Parr. It's got a good ring to it."

Helen wavers for a few more seconds, then capitulates with a groan, not entirely graceful in defeat. " _Fine_. But if you _ever_ breathe a word of the true origins of 'Jackson' to anyone, then I can't be held accountable for my actions." She pokes him in the chest for emphasis.

"Deal," says Bob. In his arms, Jack-Jack Parr coos, as if he approves of his new identity.

Helen rolls her eyes, allowing herself to sink further into the mattress, further into her husband's body. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off, she feels heavy. Tired. What she'd give to sleep for a while.

Bob must sense her thoughts, because he shifts just slightly, pressing a kiss to her hairline.

"Rest a while," he advises her. "I'm not going anywhere until the nurses kick me out, and I can hold Jack-Jack for you while you sleep. You'll need all your energy for when I bring the kids back tomorrow. They're gonna be excited."

"Are you sure?" she asks, even as she yawns.

"I'm sure," says Bob. "I got this. Look, he's harmless."

"Wait until he starts screaming. I'm going to miss having a decent night's sleep."

"He's more than worth it."

"You say that now, when he's as cute as a button. Wait until you've got to go to work and he's spent half the night crying."

"Well, the working day can hardly get much worse," Bob mutters, and Helen is reminded once again how much he hates Insuricare and everything that his mundane civilian life represents. Perhaps having Jack-Jack will be a good thing after all. Perhaps having a new baby to focus on will remind Bob of why he wanted a family in the first place and will encourage him to get more involved with all of them. She has no doubt that he loves Vi and Dash to pieces, but they'd both benefit from him taking more of an interest.

Those are worries and hopes for another day. Right now all she wants to do is bask in the beauty that they have created together, another momentous milestone in a chaotic life. Resting her head against her husband's shoulder, Helen allows her eye to drift closed and lets the soft sounds of him cooing at their son soothe her into a fortifying doze.

* * *

Violet and Dash are equal parts wary and thrilled when they visit the following day, unsure of how to fit into the new roles that they have been assigned.

Helen shows Dash exactly how to handle his baby brother, supporting his arms around Jack-Jack's weight and advising him just how to distribute it so it's not too much. Dash, who has never held a baby before in his life, beams at her and begins talking at a hundred miles an hour, listing all the ways that he is going to be the coolest big brother ever. He spares a gloating jibe for Violet that he got his wish of a brother, but for once Violet doesn't rise to it, conceding that _this_ little brother seems a lot sweeter than the other one she has. Dash sticks out his tongue, as mature as ever in defeat. Bob hastily changes the subject before a full-scale argument can erupt.

They both approve of the name, though Dash thinks that it's only going to be an option whilst he's a baby.

" _I_ wouldn't want to be called Jack-Jack in front of my friends," he says. "It's a cute baby name, not one for a big boy."

"Well, hopefully that's gonna be a long way away," says Bob. "He's only just been born. We don't want him to grow up just yet."

Privately, Helen doubts that Jack-Jack will ever grow out of the nickname. It's the thing with parents and their kids. Bob's dad still calls him 'Bobby' when they speak, which she finds so endearing for the huge man who towers well over six feet. 'Bobby' is the kind of name for a tiny little boy, but she supposes that that's what Bob still is in his father's eyes. After all, no matter what happens, he will always be his son. And she in turn will remember this for the rest of her life, Jack-Jack swaddled and snuggled in her arms, so impossibly tiny. Even if he grows to be as tall as Bob, she will never forget this moment.

She's discharged mid-afternoon because the doctor is satisfied that all is well, and the whole family piles into the car to take them back home. The journey takes almost a full hour because Bob refuses to drive at a faster pace than a crawl, and he garners quite a few blasts of the car horns for holding up the traffic—which promptly stop when the other drivers realise just how big and imposing Bob is.

Returning home feels both familiar and terrifyingly new as Helen steps over the threshold with Jack-Jack in her arms. They've baby-proofed the house in as many ways as they can think of, but her mind is already going into overdrive, looking for spots they might have missed.

She needn't have worried. Jack-Jack causes little trouble. He cries when he wants milk—which is frequently, actually—but besides that he's a truly happy baby, filled with coos and giggles. Every moment spent with him is a genuine treasure, and Helen finds herself falling more in love with the baby that she'd never wanted.

Her youngest son has lungs that eclipse Violet's and rival Dash's when he wants something, letting her know in no uncertain terms that he slots in perfectly with his two older siblings. And she adores him. She loves all of her children equally and without thought, would do absolutely anything to protect them if the situation demanded it, but there is something particularly special about Jack-Jack. A part of her wonders if it's guilt that drives the fierce maternal protectiveness she has towards him, a desire to make up for the horrible disappointment and despair she felt when she found out about his existence.

A part of her wonders if it's because he's normal. She has a normal baby, finally. As the months go on and Jack-Jack shows absolutely no signs of having any powers whatsoever, she finds herself able to fully relax for the first time since she discovered that she was pregnant again. He does not float about above her head. He doesn't cause a storm in the bathtub. He doesn't burn things, or shoot lasers, or warp things with his mind.

Helen can tell that Bob is a little disappointed with this turn of events—he's made no secret of the fact that he loves that Violet and Dash are Super too—but he's never had to spend hours fretting over possible disasters out in the real word and how they might be avoided, and he wasn't there when she and Violet were exposed in the middle of the supermarket, surrounded on all sides by an angry mob who didn't think that driving Supers underground in fear was good enough. He hadn't heard Violet's wretched sobs when she'd realised that this wasn't a game of hide-and-seek, and he hadn't felt the sheer, unstoppable wave of terror that had literally paralysed her as they'd faced so many bigoted people. She doesn't care about what might have happened to her that day—she's confident enough in her own abilities that she could have wormed her way out of any scrape—but having Violet with her meant that the stakes were so much higher, and if anything had happened to her precious child that day she never would have forgiven herself.

So Bob can be as disappointed as he likes, but it isn't going to change the relief she feels. She can take Jack-Jack to the supermarket without any unease. They can go to the park together. She can enjoy being a mother in a way that she never could with Violet or Dash. It doesn't mean that being a mother the first time around wasn't gratifying, because it was. But this is…different. A good different. It's nice to be free of that horrible knot of disquiet. She simply enjoys spending time with her youngest son, bonding with him and taking great pride in the way that he looks at her. He's still so young, but she knows that he recognises her, and recognises the protection she gives him, how she would sacrifice anything for him. Her darling little Jack-Jack.

It's Bob who suggests that they have the family portrait done. They'd had another one a long time ago, when Dash was a couple of years old, and they'd talked about refreshing it in a couple of years, a decade after the first one. Helen is quite happy to change those plans.

They cluster around the photographer together, letting him direct them. He has to move the camera back, exasperated at the fact that Bob is so tall, but evidently unwilling to comment too much because he is intimidated. Helen cradles Jack-Jack in her arms, who burbles and waves his little hands and feet around, taking great interest in everything going on around him. Bob drapes his arm around her shoulder and Helen nestles closer to him, enjoying the feel of him against her. Violet flanks her left, a shy smile on her face. Dash stands proud on her right, just in front of his father, a huge grin stretching his freckled face. Helen feels her heart swelling in her chest as she glances around at them all, her precious family. She loves each and every one of them so much.

The moment is captured in print for ever. It takes centre stage in the front room, commented on by all visitors. Whenever things are particularly trying in the following months, Helen takes it down and traces it with her eyes, holding the memory close. Bob's proud, easy smile, his protective presence at the back of them all a constant reassurance. Violet looking relaxed and happy in a way that she usually isn't, wrenched in all directions by the pressures of her two conflating worlds. Dash the spitting image of his father; Helen feels like she's staring at a window into the past when she looks at him there, everything an echo of Bob, from the posture to the over-confident smirk. Little Jack-Jack caught mid-flail, a gummy smile on his face, those gorgeous, innocent blue eyes staring up at her, the tiniest tuft of red hair sprouting out the top of his head.

Helen studies herself. She looks overjoyed too, relaxed, content. She's standing tall in a way that she hasn't for _years_. She's always hated her slightly crooked smile, but even she cannot deny that it only further shows just how happy she is.

There are always trying times in her family. She's not naïve; she knows that that's what family life is all about. Their problems simply seem all the greater because of the past that they are too tightly entwined with. Jack-Jack's presence hasn't changed Bob's desire to return to hero work like she'd been hoping it would, nor has it penetrated his miasma of despondency surrounding his civilian life. They still have raging arguments about his impulse to be the hero. Violet is still anxious and angry. Dash still gets into trouble at school because he doesn't have a better outlet for his emotions.

But no matter what the future might have in store for them, all she has to do is look at this photograph and remember. Remember that she has something worth fighting for, something that she loves beyond reason. They were all happy in that photograph, in that moment, and even though right now they're scarce, Helen has faith that one day they can all be that happy again.

She watches her husband with Jack-Jack now, their baby barely visible in his muscly arms, Dash sitting on his lap, transfixed by the television, Vi curled up on one side of him. As if sensing that she's looking at him, Bob's eyes meet hers, and he gives her a shadow of his old grin, the one that lets her know that the passionate, invigorated man she once knew is still there inside, waiting for the right circumstances to bring him back out.

"Hey," he says softly, adjusting Jack-Jack as he wriggles, "you coming to join us?"

Helen pushes off from the doorframe, ruffling Dash's hair as she passes to take her place on Bob's free side. He moves to drape his arm around her instantly, and she coils herself up beside him, tilting her head slightly to accept the chaste kiss he presses to her mouth. Neither Violet nor Dash notice, too absorbed in the television, and Bob winks at her. Helen smiles back, her heart surging with affection for all of them.

Yeah, they'll be okay. After all, they're more than just underground superheroes. They're family.

 _ **Fin**_


End file.
